More Smile Than Face

I smiled yesterday, and I actually meant it.  I smile a handful of times throughout the average day.  Social norms require this token gesture.  But if a person looked closely, they would see a mere reflex, practically involuntary and mostly thanks to muscle memory.  You can always tell if a smile is genuine by searching the eyes.  Often in mine, there is no one home or a "do not disturb" sign, cream in color with an understated green cursive font has been hung to discourage interlopers.

So, yesterday...here's what happened:

I was asked by a colleague to come speak at a class he was teaching at a local university.  The topic was a mix of the experience of raising a child with a mental illness and how a family reorganizes after a significant loss.  I didn't say yes right away.  I wavered back and forth between wanting to honor Cory's memory by helping in any way I could, and fearing I break down, be unable to answer questions adequately, or somehow be judged by strangers and a valued colleague for some of the choices I've made.

The second time I was asked, I agreed- writing it in my journal as a positive goal.  When the day approached, I debated taking my anti-diarrhea meds, as public speaking of any kind drives my anxiety through the roof.  I sat, with the tiny pills in the palm of my hand, and considered...should I be nervous?  I knew Cory better than anyone.  I've sat cheek and jowl with this grief madness for what feels like a lifetime.  What question would I not be able to answer?  And as far as judgment went, there was this:  I made the best decisions I could with the information available to me at the time.  Everyone makes mistakes- otherwise, how would we ever learn anything?

I put the pills back in the little bird pill case I'd stuffed into Cory's stocking on our last Christmas together, and decided to brave it sans meds.  I did, however, enlist a co-worker to go with me.  She was a Godsend as she chattered with me on the highway, and as we waited for the class to assemble once we'd arrived.

I'd had a good arrival, hearing a college girl behind me as we entered the building say, "Oh my God, I love her Vera bag!"  I grinned, dying to go back and tell my niece and my nephew's fiancé that they were completely and utterly mistaken...Vera Bradley is not just for old ladies, thank you very much.  This was reinforced as I spotted a couple of Vera totes and bags as the students walked into class.  I had lost a lot this last year and some odd months, but apparently not my figurative finger on the pulse of designer hand bags.  (Inward grin here).

I may have been nervous introducing myself and giving some background information, but once the questions started in a semi-circle around the room, I was lost to the joy of talking about my girl.  Some of it was difficult, and while I avoided a complete crying jag, there were some tears.  The thing was:  it was okay.  These young women and one young man were kind and respectful.  I quickly warmed to my audience and began to feel like I should lean back in my seat, and have a giant cup of coffee while we conversed.

Part of the interview process was to inquire about how I received new of my daughter's death.  That memory is always so close, so near, and so harrowing.  It hurt to tell of the worst experience of my life, but it also felt cathartic to be able to share whatever I felt comfortable sharing, not having to watch someone became uncomfortable with the raw details, changing the subject quickly, or worse- to see someone's back as they left the room.  The response I've gotten when I try to talk about it with my husband is, "Oh you don't need to talk about that."  I disagree.  Vehemently.  I think the story has to be told, in all of its horror, many times for the person to be able to take in such trauma and manage to someday integrate into their life's experiences...hopefully moving it from their short term memory to long.

The questions were, pleasantly, not that hard to answer.  It seemed my blog had not only kept me alive, but had also helped me recognize some of the issues that come up when you try to regroup yourself and your relationships with others after the loss of a child.

Once all the questions were over, there was a bit of a show and tell, as Cory's artwork, the newspaper articles, and my art journal were sent around the room.  I was beyond tickled to hear many of them saying they loved my artwork.  I am still not confident calling myself an artist, and have a long way to go before I produce anything exceptional.  I look at my drawings and painting, and they stir deep feelings for me.  I had not yet realized they might possibly cause other people to feel things, too. 

As I talked with students about the memorial jewelry I'd had made, they wanted to see what I was talking about.  Excited, I stripped off my bracelets and necklaces, eager to share one of ways I keep my girl close at all times.  As I explained to a very kind woman, "I've found out that not only do I like to look at them, but people will ask about them- and I get to say Cory's name and share her story."

One of the group's final questions was, "How has your outlook on life changed?"

There's one answer that didn't just fall right out of my mouth.  I hesitated, leery to tell these bright, shiny young faces that despite all the grief work, all the therapy, and all the meds, I still wanted to be dead more than I wanted to be alive.  Dare I say something so negative to people getting ready to embark on careers devoted to helping people better their situations?  In my mind, this thought pulsed, tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth.

I told them that I was not a huge lover of life right now.  My struggle is getting to a point where there are more good days than bad.  A lot of times I still do not want to be here.

I paused, and before I even thought about it, this popped out of my mouth, "But I'm trying.  Everyday.  And I'm going to keep trying."

My friend, Adrianne, told me later that was her favorite part, and that she's never heard that come out of my mouth before.  My response?  "I know!  Where the hell did that come from?"

She responded that it came from the truth, that underneath it all that's how I really feel.  I considered this, while wondering if Cory hadn't wanted to get a word in herself, and those were the ones she chose.  Crazy?  Maybe, but I was not the only person who felt her in the room with us.  Whatever the source, I felt it was a fitting statement for the mother of a brave girl whose epitaph will read, "Never, ever, ever, ever give up."

As we prepared to leave, my colleague asked me what was next, did I have future plans to keep Cory's memory alive?  I responded that I'd love to someday turn my blog into a book; I'd love to someday see Cory's and my artwork hanging together on display, and I would love to return to see Italy.

Say what?!  Somehow, this man and this group had gotten  long-term goals out of me- something I hadn't though of in quite a while as I paddled around in despair on the daily.

I looked around the room as I gathered up my things, tilting my head to the side, bittersweet, as I took in the faces of the young people who looked so young that I suddenly felt about a thousand, give or take a decade.  In another life, Cory might be sitting among them, smiling and chatting with her classmates, eager to learn and get on with the business of helping people, because that's what she liked to do.  And if you make your living doing what you love, you'll never work a day in your life.  These students were in their early to mid twenties.  Later that night, at home, working in my art journal, I would do the math on a scrap of paper to discover Cory would be 20 years 9 months and 9 days if she were alive...perhaps a year or two away from being part of that group.  It was almost enough to put my head on the table.  But then...

I remembered how I felt knowing that these people might someday remember a lady who came to their class to talk about her daughter, and that Cory might be remembered by people she'd never even met.  I remembered thinking that perhaps, in some small way, I might have helped people who would soon be working with families to better understand things from a client's perspective. 

Cory, are you proud of me?

I hoped so, and as I walked out the door, I had "more smile than face", as someone who is a great comfort to me often says. 

Love you, Cory-Girl.  Always, always, always.